My love of fire and firelight goes back as far as I can remember. At a young age, I was shown the trick of how to safely pass my fingers through the white of candle light. Later, I learned how to squeeze orange oil from peels onto candle flames to make sparkling sprays of orange-scented light. Learning how to build and tend a fire in our home fireplace followed naturally from those early lessons. 

On a December night that could scarcely have been more perfect, I was reminded of these and other happy fire-connected memories as I tended our celebratory solstice spiral fire. Just as we finished setting up the spiral, full darkness descended beneath a cloud-filled sky. As we huddled near the center fire, our breath came out in thick clouds and distant Christmas lights illuminated the far shore of Eyak Lake. A street light flicked on and large snowflakes began to fall in dense, fluffy flurries. The street lamp created magical beams of light that cut through the tall spruce and hemlock forest surrounding the luminaria spiral. I found myself encircled in magic while performing what is probably my favorite job – tending a fire. 

I spent many of my growing-up years in California. In sort of a funny irony, the house I lived in had a big fireplace. Of course, as a Californian, once the temperature hit 50° F, it was time to warm up the “chilly” house with a cozy fire. As most of the heat was drawn up the chimney, maybe a fireplace was a perfect adornment to a California home. I spent many winter days and nights close to that fireplace – basking in the warmth and staring into the coals as they assumed ever-changing shapes and fueled fiery imaginary scenes. I had been taught how to build and tend the fire, and so was allowed to stoke and feed it without supervision. There was always something so magical in this activity that I never tired of it. 

This pyrofascination continued into my adulthood. I think my prowess in fire tending might have been a selling point to Jack. One of our first adventures together was a camping trip up the West Coast. Looking back, I now believe that the trip was a test. We set up camp the first night. Like a well-choreographed dance, we seamlessly set up the tent together, after which we divided the camp tasks. Jack set up the camp kitchen while I went about making a fire inside a rock-lined circle. I quickly created a small kindling pile topped with a teepee of larger wood. In no time, I had a roaring fire going. Jack was pleasantly surprised. Test passed with flying colors!

It’s been almost fourteen years in Alaska now. Life here has given me an appreciation of the loss and gain of sunlight as the months come and go that I never had in California. When we lived above the Arctic Circle in Point Hope, after Winter Solstice, once the sun again showed above the horizon in early January, we gained an incredible six minutes of sunlight every day. It was as though the sun was racing toward us. By mid-March, we had gone from the total dark of early January to nearly 12 hours of daylight; by late June, the sun never left the sky. In the different places of Alaska we’ve lived, of course, the increase of daylight hours came at different paces. But it is universally true that summer days are long and winters are dark. Regardless of the pace at which the sun returns after solstice, just knowing that daylight is now increasing adds an extra spark of happiness to each day. 

We wish you, our readers, many sparks of happiness as we are coming back into long light-filled days. Happy winter solstice!